The Mark of Nyarlathotep
by Argonaut57
Summary: On the Eve of May, 2006, and English Auror walks the streets of ancient and witch-haunted Arkham. A trail of madness, murder and ancient lore has brought Harry Potter here. On an uninhabited island in the Miskatonic River, he is about confirm his worst suspicions about the source of Voldemorts' power, and origin of the Dark Mark.


**The Mark of Nyarlathotep**

It was on the Eve of May in the year 2006 that Harry Potter came to Arkham, where it still lay beside the dark Miskatonic. The teachers at the nearby Randolph Carter School of Magic had warned him against coming here on this of all days, even more strongly than those at Ilvermorny had. Harry was a wizard, and knew the significance of Walpurgis Night. Knew more of its immemorial origins and meaning than the muggle priests who had vainly attempted to counter its influence with one of their plaster saints. But here, in this most ancient and haunted town of ancient and haunted New England, the feast had far blacker implications.

But that was why Harry had come here, why the most brilliant young Auror of his generation, the man known as the Master of Death, had taken unexpected leave of absence from his duties and left his young family. He was here because almost fifty years before, Tom Riddle had come here, but Lord Voldemort had returned to England. He had come here because rumour, anecdote and testimony had convinced him that this place was the origin of the Dark Mark.

Six months earlier, the savage murder of a wizard family had brought him to a quiet suburb in England. To a house where four victims had been literally torn to pieces. No sooner had this crime been detected when another took place in the same street. Harry and his fellow Auror Ron Weasley had managed to capture the killer, but not before another family had been slaughtered.

The killer was a beast; clawed, fanged, ravenous and mindless. But it had once been a man. A man Harry knew as the wizard Gegory Goyle.

For three months, the thing that had been Goyle beat its' head against the padded walls of a cell at St Mungos' Hospital. Then another wizard broke into the hospital and killed it before being captured himself. He proved to be Blaise Zabini, a former Slytherin.

Upon interrogation, Zabini seemed to be half-mad himself, boasting and babbling of the great power that would soon be his. He spoke of the Black Man, of a strange initiation undertaken in a land far away. Of a path to power on which both he and Lord Voldemort had taken the first steps, but from which Voldemort had strayed in his arrogance. He also spoke the dread name Nyarlathotep. Then the following morning, he was found dead in his holding cell at the Ministry of Magic, with a look of stark terror fixed on his face.

Examination of both bodies had revealed certain _changes_, both internal and external. These differed between the two, except in one particular. Both bore the Dark Mark, not on the arm, where Voldemort had always placed it, but on the left shoulder. Those who had interred Voldemort himself recalled that he had borne the Mark in the same spot.

Harry knew he must investigate this. If the evil of Voldemort had a source outside himself, there was a chance that another Dark Lord could arise. This could not be permitted. So he set himself to find out all he could. He found that Zabini and Goyle had travelled to Arkham together a year ago. From papers among Zabinis effects, it seemed he had found evidence that Voldemort had also travelled here, during the 1960s. But through all of this ran a single theme. The desire to speak with the Black Man, and be initiated by him into the deepest mysteries of Dark Magic.

Harry went to read the ancient tomes of the Restricted Section of Hogwarts Library. The Black Man was well-known as being associated with the darkest of dark magic. He was a central figure in the Comte d'Erlettes' _Cultes des Ghoules_ and mentioned often in the _Unaussprechlichen Kulten_ of von Juntz. He was even referred to in the more specialised _De Vermis Mysteriis_ by Ludwig Prinn. Nyarlathotep, on the other hand, featured in older and stranger books. Mention of the Crawling Chaos was frequent in the _Book of Eibon_, and more was to be found in the curiously fragmented _Pnakotic Manuscripts_.

But it was only when he collated his notes with certain passages of the obscene _Necronomicon_ that Harry had come to a crucial realisation. The Black Man, the leader and mentor before whom any wizard seeking mastery of the Dark Arts must finally bow, was identical with Nyarlathotep, Soul and Messenger of the blind and mindless Other Gods who roll endlessly in the dark voids between space and time.

Now his mission was clear.

Old Arkham still crouched, unchanged, on the banks of the Miskatonic. A tangle of narrow streets and alleys, half-shadowed between tottering gambrel roofs, rotting Georgian edifices and cheap 1930s tenement buildings. Miskatonic University still rose near the river, its campus dominated by the original Georgian lecture-hall with its tall bell-tower.

The river itself was broad at this point as it neared the sea. The stately bridges of old still spanned it in places, joining the town together. But there was something else. An island in the middle of the stream. Not large, but not an islet either. Its steep sides were thickly wooded, but the summit was bare, and crowned with ring of nine standing stones. How and when the stones had been brought there, and who had set them up, none could say. There was no landing place on the island, and around it the river plunged to anomalous depths that made the building of a bridge impossible even now. Yet the island had a bad reputation, and it was said that at certain times of the year, fires could be seen on the summit, and the faint sounds of wild music and chanting could be heard.

Harry, of course, knew perfectly well how the stones could have been brought and raised, and how the island could be reached. What he did not know was who had done so and why. Professors and old records at Ilvermorny and Randolph Carter whispered of Dark rituals and the Black Man. Native American shamans had told him that the stones were older than any memory among their Nations, but spoke of terrible legends. One had mentioned Nyarlathotep, confirming Harry's suspicions.

As Harry gazed at the island, he felt his scar begin to pulse. Not with the burning pain he associated with the presence of Voldemort. This was a throbbing that resonated with a certain cosmic rhythm he had read of in Abdul al-Hazreds' forbidden tome. A rhythm that rose and fell across the cycles of the year, calling those who felt it to certain places at specific times. It called now to modern man in the same way it had called to the australopithecines of ancient Africa, the _Homo Erectus_ of the East and the Neanderthals and Cro-Magnons of Europe. In every generation there were those among both muggles and wizards who felt the rhythm more keenly than others, just as there were those who felt it not at all.

Harry knew that here, and now, on Walpurgis Night, he must follow that rhythm through the twisted streets of ancient and witch-haunted Arkham. Only then could he find the answers he sought, and put an end to the black legacy of Lord Voldemort.

Harry threaded the streets of Old Arkham, following his instincts as well as the directions given him by the professors at Randolph Carter, until he came to a certain building. A tenement house, built of pale brick in the 1940s, perhaps, and in better condition than most. Lights twinkled in most of the windows. Apartments occupied by low-paid but hard-working families, he'd been told.

But the building did not interest him, it was the ground itself. Here, in the 17th century, had stood the house occupied by Keziah Mason, witch. While a student at Ilvermorny, she had pursued an interest in Arithmancy that went far beyond the ordinary. She had delved into the mysteries of magical geometry, a science that was believed to contain the secrets of travel to other worlds and planes of existence. But the secrets she sought eluded her, until she realised that in order to obtain them, she must study the Dark Arts, and left Ilvermorny to do so.

What had happened then was unclear. Rumour had it that she had settled in Arkham, accompanied by a strange creature, half-rat, half-monkey, that she called Brown Jenkin, but she avoided the society of other witches and wizards, preferring to live among muggles. The next certain fact was that she had been arrested in Salem and sent for trial in 1692 -the only actual witch to be caught up in that affair. Found guilty, she escaped from Salem Gaol and disappeared. Over the next two and a half centuries, rumours persisted of Keziah and Brown Jenkin being seen about the district where her old house stood.

But this time, muggles knew more. Research at Miskatonic University had unearthed accounts of an odd occurrence in 1932. The abduction of a child in the last days of April, the sudden and inexplicable death of a brilliant young student named Walter Gilman and the condemnation of the Mason House. All surrounded by rumours of sightings of Keziah, Jenkin, the Black Man and a young man in nightclothes.

The eventual demolition of the house two years later had revealed a sealed attic containing a mouldering collection of rare books and the skeleton of a middle-aged woman, oddly fresh. A void between walls proved to contain an ossuary of childrens' bones, along with a knife of curious design, a chased bowl made from an unidentifiable alloy, and a strange statuette, identified by some as representing the mythical Elder Things of Antarctica. Finally, beneath the attic floor, workmen had found the skeleton of some kind of mutated animal, a large rat with oddly simian characteristics.

But Harry had found what he was looking for. From this place, he could follow a trail that would lead him to the Black Man. He began threading his way through the narrow, twisting streets that, despite the hour, were still teeming with life. Brightly-lit store windows and fast-food outlets interspersed with bars and quiet 'mom and pop' restaurants, all busy in the cool spring evening. Vacant lots turned into impromptu basketball courts or soccer pitches. Churches with their doors open.

Harry realised that this was not usual. The Walpurgis rhythm that throbbed in his scar and through the blood of wizards and witches was also felt by many others. Not as a call, perhaps, or even as a rhythm. Just a sense, an awareness that tonight was different. That tonight was perhaps a good night to be in company. That those who sought their beds early might experience dreams they would rather not. Even the animals, the dogs who guarded peoples' bodies and homes, the cats who watched over their spirits, were more alert, more active than normal.

The throb had other effects. The groups of flashily-dressed youths who congregated on street corners were more on edge than usual as well. More protective perhaps, or more aggressive, depending on the nature of the group. One or two, driven by aggression born of a fear they didn't fully understand, made to challenge Harry. But something about the tall man in dark clothing, something in his long, easy stride and the quelling glance of his icy green eyes, sent them back to their groups muttering.

"He ain't worth it."

"He _connected_, man!"

"See his _scar_? Dude's one scary badass!"

His path brought Harry at last to a crumbling wharf, long disused, on the banks of the river, opposite the island. Flickering red and yellow light could already be seen among the standing stones on the crown of the island. The fane was prepared, all that was lacking were the worshippers. He could sense the barriers set about the stones, no doubt intended to discourage Aurors or curious wizards. But at the foot of the island, directly opposite him, a low, red light flashed in tune with the cosmic rhythm he had been following. A signal to the initiated, or at least to those who could feel the pulse.

A Farsight Charm showed him a small area of flat land, trees pressing close, in front of a cave mouth where someone stood. People – and things that were not quite people – were arriving there. Some by apparition, some riding strange beasts or brooms, others through various portals or in shimmering globes or columns of light. Each of them gave the man -it was a man, pale and ascetic-looking – a small bone-white token and received in return a black hooded cloak, which they put on before entering the cave.

Harry considered his Invisibility Cloak, but he had learned the hard way that blending in was a better way to remain unseen. He apparated over to the spot he had been watching. No other arrivals were there, and a swift, silent Imperius Curse was all that was needed to secure a cloak and admittance to the cave.

This proved to be a tunnel, tracking steeply, but not unmanageably, upwards. The floor was of smooth, tessellated masonry, worn with the passing of many feet, but still sturdy. The walls were also of masonry, with a band of carving at shoulder height. The carvings, in countersunk low relief, were pictorial, but all showed similar scenes. Crowds of people, and others who were neither entirely human nor wholly animal, gathered within the stone circle, around a bonfire at the centre. Near the fire stood a tall, robed figure with indistinguishable features. Before him stood a single figure, usually human, holding a large, curiously-carved bowl.

As Harry advanced along the tunnel, scanning the carvings by the light of the torched placed in brackets beside each one, he noticed that though the image remained the same, the details changed. The suits and hats of the 20th and 19th century gave way to the periwigs and breeches of the 17th, mingled with the plain garb of Puritans and a larger number of Native Americans. A new group appeared -odd, batrachian humanoids with wide-set eyes and webbed hands and feet. Strangely, even the medieval pictures showed Europeans present -but then the witches and wizards of Europe had known of the Americas long before the muggles had found it. As he neared the top, the human figures disappeared, leaving only the froglike beings. Then these were joined by other entities. Cone shapes with clustered tentacles at the top. Cylindrical beings with starfish heads and radiate tentacles. Fungous, crustacean things with clumsy wings. Pulpy monstrosities with clawed feet, dragon wings and faces that were masses of feelers. But always the robed figure was there, and always one of the worshippers bore the bowl to him.

Then the tunnel opened into a wide hall, where a crowd of cloaked and hooded worshippers gathered, slowly making their way through a great doorway that led into the woods. Among the crowd, Harry walked through a grove of twisted trees whose tangled branches blocked the sky, to emerge finally in the open area between the standing stones.

There, on a great flat stone in the centre, a large bonfire blazed. The worshippers, at some unheard signal, began to sway and chant. The chant was in the dark aklo tongue, native language of a pre-human race long gone from the Earth. It resonated with the pulse of the Walpurgis rhythm, and rose and fell from low muttering to full-throated yells and screams. So absorbed were they in their ritual that Harry was able to gently push his way forward until he stood at the very front.

Then the chant stopped, as if a switch had been thrown, and the Black Man was there. Tall, thin, hairless. His skin was black as ebony, but his small, even features were Caucasian. He was covered from throat to heel in a long, elaborate black robe. He said nothing, simply stared out over the throng with black, unblinking, eyes.

There was a stirring in the crowd behind Harry and he stood aside instinctively, to allow a woman through. Tall, slender, perhaps in her thirties, very beautiful, with a long fall of jet-black hair that reached below her waist. She wore a gown of black silk that left a great deal of white skin on show, and she carried a large bowl, chased with sinister decoration, and brimming with a dark, thick liquid that steamed slightly in the cool air.

Slowly, she paced toward the Black Man. The crowd tensed in anticipation of the climax of the ritual. As the woman stretched her arms out to pass the bowl to the Black Man, the last link fell into place. The movement had revealed her left shoulder and there, clear on the pale skin, was the Dark Mark. Not black, but glowing a baleful red.

"_Avada Kedavra_!" Harrys' spell broke the silence like a whipcrack. The jet of green light struck the woman full in the back. She fell with a shriek. The great bowl struck the stone with a terrible clang as it dropped, spilling its horrid contents. The blood of a freshly-slaughtered child, a crime which Harry had seen fit to punish in this way.

Silence fell again, and in the silence, the Black Man turned his gaze on Harry. He smiled, a smile that was too wide, and exposed gleaming white fangs. He raised his left hand to point, and Harry played his last, his only, card.

"_Senescesignum_!" He invoked, and a blaze of light left his wand to hang in the air before his opponent. Swiftly, it shaped itself into a curved pentacle, with the image of a fiery eye in the centre. Harry had learned more from the old books than the identity of the evil he sought, he had also learned how to conjure the Elder Sign. The sign of Nodens, Bast, Hypnos, Kthanid and Yad-Thaddag. The Elder Gods who oppose the Other Gods, and before whose sigil even the greatest evil must flee.

The Black Man raised both hands, as if to defend himself. Then his human form seemed to shatter and another rose from it. A skeletal giant, bone covered with raw, skinless muscle, clawed hands and feet and no face, just a single, long, red tentacle. Nyarlathotep flung the tentacle skyward as he emitted a terrible howl, then vanished.

A wave seemed to pass across the throng of worshippers. Some fell to the ground, others turned on each other, rending with teeth and nails. The greater number simply turned and fled, blindly.

Harry ignored them. With the Elder Sign still burning before him, he moved to each of the standing stones in turn. At each one of them, the sign burned its' image into the stone. The circle was closed. No longer would the cosmic rhythm draw the sensitive or the corrupt to this place. And if any remembered and came, no messenger or supernatural servant of the Other Gods could enter here. Only empty rituals, mere words bereft of power, could be carried out here now.

Harry extinguished the Sign, and apparated away.

In the hallway of the house he had rented, Harry caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror. Drawn, haggard, with eyes that had seen more than mortal eyes should. He went quickly to the study.

There a quill, ink and a roll of parchment awaited him. He sat and began to write, quickly and clearly. As he worked, he felt the dark fingers clawing at his mind. Fingers that tried to draw him away into a spinning vortex of fire, blood and pain. There were voices also. Voices that spoke longingly of the long, silent fall from the nearby bridge into the soothing, numbing, icy waters of the Miskatonic. He summoned the iron will that had sustained him throughout his long struggle with Voldemort, and wrote on.

The work finally complete, he rolled and sealed the scroll, then wrote a short note on a sheet of ordinary notepaper. Going to the bedroom, he picked up a vial that lay on the nightstand, opened it and swallowed the contents at a draught. The potion acted quickly; he barely had time to shrug off his clothes and tumble into bed.

Harry woke refreshed and clear-headed. He showered luxuriously and breakfasted prodigiously before going into the study. He saw the scroll there, and though his memory of its contents was gone, he did not need the note he had written himself to know he must not open or read it short of dire necessity. He stored it away among his luggage.

Lying on the floor of the hall was a black, hooded cloak. It was not soiled in any way, but exuded a faint stench that made Harry decide he should burn it at once.

Later, he watched television. He heard of the terrible howl that had echoed over the city in the early hours, waking children and bringing the sensitive to the verge of hysterics. Of how 'occult experts', psychics and conspiracy theorists had all pointed to the island as its source.

A local radio station had sent its 'eye in the sky' helicopter to the island, and what they saw there prompted them to call the police. Police helicopters had been dispatched (and if some wondered why this had never been done before, Harry didn't). There had been an attempt at a media blackout, but the authorities had been unable to stem the demands of the press.

Reports followed, telling of the discovery of the smouldering remains of a bonfire in the stone circle. Reports of dangerous maniacs attacking the police and having to be subdued or even shot. Of people found catatonic, or lying curled up and gibbering. Of up to sixty dead: some torn by madmen, others of apparent heart failure. More of interest to the public was the discovery of the scantily-clad corpse of a celebrity; a former model turned blogger, New York socialite and reality TV star, also apparently dead of heart failure. A search of the house she had rented locally revealed the body of a child, apparently killed with a knife of unusual design found nearby. The child itself had disappeared from an ill-regarded foster home in the poorer part of the town a few days before. Needless to say, it was later found that DNA samples from the blood found in the strange bowl discovered on the island matched that of the dead infant.

In an apparently unrelated matter, the Miskatonic River Patrol reported finding an unusually large number of bodies in the river over the next few days.

Harry stayed another night in Arkham, then travelled to the Randolph Carter School, where he handed the scroll he had made over to the Director. He explained that he himself could not read it for fear of triggering unhealthy memories, but that someone should. Then he went home.

Whether the Director read the account or not is unknown. Certainly he never mentioned or wrote about the matter, and no enquiries into Harrys' actions were ever made, despite his use of Unforgivable Curses.

Over the next few months, a number of muggles and wizards were reported missing. Not all of them were ever found, and those that were had clearly lost their sanity. Investigations were opened, and rapidly closed. It is rumoured that the White Council intervened in the matter.

The island in the Miskatonic is now a Site of Historical Interest, frequented only by archaeologists and Modern Pagans. The worst things to come out of there now are internet videos and photos of skyclad Wiccans celebrating Midsummer.

Harry Potter still suffers from dark, unremembered dreams on the Eve of May.


End file.
